The Lakeside Conspiracy

by Gregg Stutts

  “I didn’t realize how much I missed the beach until I was back,” she said.

  “It’s so good to see you,” he said. “I couldn’t believe it when you called.”

  A waitress came to their table and handed them each a menu and asked for their drink orders. Michelle ordered a glass of chardonnay. Chris ordered a brand of beer she’d never heard of.

  “I’m starving,” Michelle said.

  “Well, everything is good here,” Chris said. “If you like sushi, maybe we could share a couple rolls.”

  “That sounds great,” she said. “Why don’t you order for us?”

  When their server returned with the drinks, Chris ordered a Beachcomber Roll and a Green Dragon Roll with two garden salads.

  They each took a drink and looked out over the ocean. It couldn’t have been a more perfect evening. There was a light breeze, but not enough for Michelle to need the light sweater she’d slipped into her purse.

  “I was trying to think of the last time I saw you,” he said. “Was it your wedding day?”

  “Hard to believe it’s been fourteen years, huh?” she said.

  “Shelle, I heard about your daughter. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you,” she said and took a sip of her chardonnay.

  They sat quietly for a few moments taking in the sights and sounds of a late summer evening on the boardwalk.

  “I used to love coming to the beach in September,” she said. “No crowds. Weather was still warm. It was like time just slowed down.” She took another sip of wine.

  If it was possible, Chris looked even better than he had in college. It was hard for her to not notice his arms and chest in his black t-shirt. He certainly hadn’t quit working out.

  “What brought you back, Shelle?”

  She drank some wine and set the glass down. “It’s a long story.”

  He smiled and said, “I’m in no hurry.”

  Their waitress brought their salads and asked if they wanted another drink. They did.

  Michelle drizzled some dressing on her salad and took a bite.

  “If you’d rather not go into it, I understand,” Chris said.

  Michelle set her fork down and held her glass so the moonlight sparkled through it. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of ocean air and slowly exhaled. When she opened her eyes, she looked at Chris who was watching her closely. “Things were good. We were happy. Until Sarah got sick.”

  “What did she have?”

  “Leukemia,” she said. “It was awful.” She sipped some wine. “We tried everything. Chemo. Bone marrow transplant. Special diets. Supplements. Every alternative treatment we found.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Nothing worked,” she whispered. “She just kept getting worse.” She looked at Chris and could see his eyes filling with tears. “And after eighteen months of doing everything we knew to do, she died.”

  “Oh, Shelle, I’m just so sorry,” he said.

  “So I lost Sarah,” she said. “And then I lost Max.”

  “Was Sarah your only child?” Chris asked.

  “Yeah, we couldn’t ever get pregnant again. We saw several doctors. None of them had an explanation. Before Sarah died, we had talked about adoption, but never pursued it. We both kept hoping we’d get pregnant again.”

  “I know that’s painful,” Chris said.

  “Max didn’t handle Sarah’s death or our infertility well at all. He just kept getting angrier and angrier and more and more distant,” she said. “He wouldn’t talk about any of it—not about Sarah, not about the pain we both felt of not having another baby.” She paused for a moment. “I tried to get him to talk to someone, to see a counselor, but he wouldn’t do it. Our marriage has been dying a slow, painful death. Like Sarah did.”

  Chris slid his chair closer to Michelle’s and put his arm around her shoulder. He hugged her tight. “I’m so sorry you had to go through all that,” he said. He let her go, but kept his chair close to hers. “What have you told Max?”

  “I told him I’ll be home by the end of the week,” she said. “I feel like I’ve given all I can give though. I don’t know if I can go back.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes and finished their drinks while watching the moonlight dance on the waves, interrupted only by their waitress clearing their salad plates and dropping off their sushi rolls. She asked if they wanted another drink. They both said they’d have one more. The sushi rolls were the best Michelle had ever tasted.

  It was almost 9:30 when they finished dinner. Michelle tried to pay for her part of the check, but Chris insisted on getting it. She argued, but he held firm.

  After he paid, Chris said, “Let’s walk down the boardwalk and get some ice cream.” Chris paused. “Like we used to.”

  “On one condition,” she said. “You let me pay for the ice cream.”

  “I promise not to argue,” he said.

  They walked downstairs and turned north up the boardwalk to find some ice cream. As they walked, their hands grazed lightly against each other. And a moment later, their fingers were interlocked as naturally as they had been in high school.

  Michelle could feel her life in Arkansas beginning to slip away. It was a feeling she wasn’t going to fight.

  CHAPTER 17

  Once football season started, the days and weeks always flew by. It was already Thursday, the day before their second game. Thursday practices were just a quick walk-through. If the team wasn’t ready by then, no amount of practice the day before a game was going to help. Max was happy with the focus and enthusiasm. It had been a good practice.

  At 4:55, he blew his whistle and pulled the team together at mid-field. He reminded them to get a good night’s sleep, to make sure their game shoes were shined and to get themselves ready to beat Siloam Springs the next night.

  He also took a moment to remind them it was September 11th and that they enjoyed freedom to play football because others were sacrificing their lives to defend them.

  “You guys were barely out of diapers when we were attacked,” he said. “Don’t take your freedom for granted. When you see a man or woman in uniform, you thank them for defending you. Understand?” They all nodded.

  Max didn’t feel like cooking, so he made his usual stop at Feltner Brother’s. He planned to go through the drive-thru, but when he saw Dante’s mother coming out of the restaurant, he parked. He’d only talked with her briefly at the funeral. He got out of his truck just before she got in her car. “Ms. Jones,” he called.

  She looked at him with a look Max could only describe as terror. It was as if she’d heard her name called and turned to see a zombie walking toward her. “Ms. Jones, it’s Coach Henry,” he said. “I saw you coming out of the restaurant. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  “How I’m doin’?” she said. “My baby is dead is how I’m doin’, Mr. Henry,” she said as she opened the driver’s door and got in. “Just please leave me alone. I shouldn’t even be talkin’ to you.”

  She got in the car, shut the door and wasted no time driving way. Max was left standing there trying to understand what had just happened. Why did she seem so scared to see him? As he walked into the restaurant, he wondered what she’d meant when she said she shouldn’t be talking to him. That didn’t sound like a grieving mother. That sounded like a grieving mother who was terrified of something. Or someone.

  Max went inside and ordered his usual. Water though instead of tea. On his drive home, he couldn’t stop thinking about Michelle. He’d given her the space she asked for so he hadn’t tried to call or text her.

  Maybe now was the time to reach out. The longer she was gone, the more he missed her. The more he needed her. The more he regretted how he’d abandoned her.

  It was time to call her.

  CHAPTER 18

  After dinner with her parents on Thursday, Michelle went for a walk on the beach. It was a beautiful evening. The mid-September clouds were brilliant shades of orange, yell
ow, pink and purple. She walked south and looked out toward the horizon. Somewhere out in the south Atlantic off the coast of West Africa, she’d heard a tropical storm was forming. The odds of it hitting the east coast were low. For an area still trying to recover from Sandy, that was welcome news.

  She was really missing Chris. After their dinner on Monday night, they’d gone out for coffee on Tuesday and a long walk on Wednesday. Chris had a commitment at school he couldn’t get out of otherwise they would have been together again tonight. He taught history at the older of the two high schools in Brick Township. The one where they’d first met.

  Throughout the day, she found herself thinking more and more about him and less and less about Max. She felt guilty about that, but what was she supposed to do? She’d done all she could to rescue her marriage, but saving a marriage took two people. What was left to save anyway? Still though, she wished the nagging feelings of guilt would go away.

  After a thirty-minute walk, she turned around and headed back toward the house. It was on the walk back she made the decision. She wasn’t going back to Arkansas. She felt a connection with Chris again. Being with him had kindled feelings that had been dormant for a long time. It felt so good to have a man actually take an interest in her. To genuinely care. Maybe she was never meant to marry Max.

  Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Chris: “This meeting is SO boring! I wish I was with you!”

  She replied, “Sorry!! I wish I was with you!!”

  He sent another text, “Want to go to the football game tomorrow night? Brick is playing Toms River East.”

  “I’d love to! I’ll meet you there.”

  “It’s a date!”

  “Can’t wait!!” she typed back.

  CHAPTER 19

  Max got home, turned on SportsCenter and watched while he ate his burger and onion rings. He told himself he’d call Michelle as soon as he was finished eating. The truth was that he was procrastinating. He felt as nervous as a high school kid calling a girl to ask her to the prom. Of course, today’s kids didn’t ask a girl to the prom over the phone. Now it was as complicated as asking a girl to get married.

  After he finished his burger, he was in the mood for some dessert. He found some chocolate ice cream drumsticks in the freezer. Michelle knew he loved them and had gotten two boxes. They’d been in there for a month or so, but he had never opened them until tonight. That had probably made him seem ungrateful, which if he was being honest, was true.

  That reminded him of something their pre-marital counselor had told them many years before. He had looked at both of them very carefully and said he was going to give them a formula for assessing their marital satisfaction.

  He said it wasn’t complicated, but they should write it down anyway. Max remembered opening his notebook to a clean page, ready to copy down the formula.

  The counselor said the condition of their marriage, whether it was good or bad, happy or sad, fulfilling or frustrating, would be determined by everything Max did and said plus everything Michelle did and said.

  Max had written:

  The condition of our marriage = everything I do and say + everything Michelle does and says.

  Their counselor explained that promises, good intentions and plans that start tomorrow counted for nothing. What mattered was what they each actually did and said.

  He hadn’t thanked Michelle for the ice cream. Or anything else she’d done for him over the past few years. Or for all the ways she had encouraged him and stuck by him. It wasn’t just a lack of appreciation. He’d failed to meet her needs and help her through the darkest season of their lives. He’d only been concerned about himself. His needs. His feelings. His anger. Sitting alone in his living room, he wondered how in the world he could have been so selfish for so long.

  He picked up his phone and called Michelle. The butterflies were going crazy. It was ringing, but she wasn’t picking up. Just when he was ready for it to go to voice mail, he heard, “Hi, Max.”

  “Oh, hey Shelle,” he said. “I wasn’t sure you were going to answer.”

  “Well, actually I’d thought about not answering, but I was going to call you anyway.”

  “You were?” Max said, suddenly feeling encouraged.

  “Yeah, I went for a walk on the beach after dinner. I’ve been thinking a lot,” she said.

  “Oh, okay,” he said, now feeling less encouraged by the tone in her voice.

  “Max, there’s really no easy way to say this, but it shouldn’t be any great surprise to you…I’m not coming home,” she said.

  Max felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach. He sat down. And then he felt it. The tightness. The darkness. The oppression that was so intense it felt like a physical presence with him.

  “Max, did you hear me?”

  Maybe she didn’t mean it the way he’d taken it. Maybe she only meant she was staying a few extra days. “Do you mean this week?” he said, hoping for the best, but fearing the worst.

  “No,” she said. “I mean not ever.”

  He closed his eyes. He tried to breathe. To stay calm. He wanted to think clearly and understand. Under no circumstances did he want to get angry. He wanted to respond well. He wanted to ask for another chance. But the lump in his throat prevented him from talking.

  “Max, did you hear me?” she asked. “I’m not coming home. I’m staying here.” She paused a moment for a response, but Max didn’t speak. “This can’t be a surprise,” she said.

  Max tried to speak, but could only manage a whisper, “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I’ve gotta go now. I’ll call you soon to make arrangements.” She waited again for a response, then said, “Goodbye, Max.”

  He sat on the sofa for several minutes. It was a bad dream. Only it wasn’t. This was real. Michelle wasn’t coming home.

  “Everything I do and say plus everything Michelle does and says,” Max said softly. “No wonder she’s not coming home.”

  He replayed the conversation in his mind. She was staying in New Jersey. He shouldn’t have been surprised. But he was.

  In the distance, he heard a train whistle and pictured the tracks he had to drive over every day on the way to school. Once in awhile, the red lights would flash, the bell would ring and the gates would come down to block traffic while a train passed by blaring its horn.

  You couldn’t miss the warning signs of an approaching train. Apparently though, it was possible to miss the warning signs of your marriage falling apart.

  As he sat there trying to process what had just happened and fight off the darkness that was pressing in on him, three words suddenly popped into his head…

  Don’t give up.

  CHAPTER 20

  It hadn’t been a good night of sleep. A thousand thoughts and images were swirling through his mind. He’d wake up with one thing on his mind and fall back to sleep with another. Never resolving anything. Every issue led to another. Questions didn’t have answers. Any answers he thought he had turned out to be wrong the more he thought about them.

  Michelle was clear. She was done. She was not coming home. And he hadn’t seen it coming. And a week ago, he might not have even cared. But now he did. He just didn’t know what to do or who to even turn to for help. How many times had Michelle asked him to seek out someone to talk to? How many times had she pleaded with him to see a counselor?

  Maybe there was no sense in talking to anyone at this point. It was probably too late. And then it hit him again, the thought he’d had the night before: Don’t give up. How many times had he spoken those very words to his players?

  He tried to think of someone to talk to. And then he realized, there was no time to deal with any of this now. The Siloam Springs game kicked-off in thirteen hours. The buses were leaving the field house in nine hours.

  His marriage would have to wait. But wasn’t that the kind of thinking that led to the problem? How many times had Michelle taken a back seat to football?

  Ma
ybe he should just resign. Quit football altogether. If it wasn’t too late to save his marriage, then giving up football was the least he could do. He’d offered to quit a week ago, but Michelle had said that wasn’t what she wanted. She knew he loved football.

  He thought about what she’d said about not hiding behind football. That’s exactly what he’d done. Rather than face the pain head on, he’d suppressed it and thrown himself totally into coaching.

  Before leaving the house, Max did something he hadn’t done in a long time. Something he’d swore he’d never do again. It wasn’t long. Or eloquent. But it was from his heart. He prayed, “God, please help me.”